


so wrong when it's right

by spacebubble



Series: how did it end up like this? [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Episode: s4e25 Body Parts, Ferengi, M/M, Power Play, Rare Pairings, Smut, incredibly specific and complicated consent, ridiculous finance-based flirtation techniques
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-01-27 04:13:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12573436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacebubble/pseuds/spacebubble
Summary: “This is not business, Quark. This is personal.”A totally alternative storyline for "Body Parts," starting shortly after Brunt leaves Quark's quarters for the evening. No, not like that. Not at first, anyway.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween...! 
> 
> Please note that this is a _very_ conditional ship, though it does have a twisted spice to it. The circumstances of the episode result in a very complicated context for consent, but Quark's actions are voluntary, even if they're not necessarily responsible. Do not attempt to sex your way out of a life-or-death dilemma. Do not do this. 
> 
> (Ultimately, the true horror story is the toxic hypermasculinity embedded in traditional Ferengi culture, but you probably knew that already.)
> 
> Ch 1 is relatively tame - smut to follow. ;)

“Brunt, wait!”

Quark almost trips on his slippered feet as he hurries to catch up with the liquidator.

The habitat ring corridor is empty except for Brunt, walking away from him at a languid, unhurried pace, like he has all the time in the world. It’s the pace of someone who can afford to cross the galaxy on a whim, unbeholden to normal business hours and their attendant obligations, and it’s driving Quark mad.

_Smug bastard._

Brunt doesn’t even bother turning to look at him when he catches up. He does, however, snidely note, “Desperation’s a poor look on you, Quark. Rushing after me without even the decency to put on a robe?”

Quark blinks, confused. His heart’s still pounding, unaccustomed to running at this hour of the night (or any hour, for that matter), and he doesn’t understand what Brunt’s getting at. “Why would I need to put on a robe?”

“I see you’re even more of a deviant than I thought,” Brunt replies with a scoff. “My mistake, _clearly._ I hadn’t realized you were accustomed to wearing merely one layer of clothing like some offworlder fe-male.”

The comparison takes Quark aback. He forgets that a traditionalist like Brunt would obsess over that sort of thing, even though his pajamas are zipped up to his neck, the long sleeves cover up to his wrists, and there’s no other skin exposed besides his hands and head. 

Also, technically, he’s wearing another layer of clothing underneath his pajamas. 

“Technically,” Quark says, “I’m wearing more than one layer -”

Brunt folds his arms as they continue walking. “I can _hear_ it, Quark. _Fabric_ against _skin_.” He darts a scornful glance to Quark, then looks away immediately after, like he’s afraid to catch some terrible contagion if he looks for too long. “Those outdated pajamas are the only thing between you and -” Brunt lowers his voice to a disgusted whisper, “- _male nudity_.”

“But -”

“It’s positively _unseemly_!”

Quark rolls his eyes. “I’m _wearing_ underwear, Brunt -”

Suddenly Brunt clamps a hand over his mouth and throws an arm around him to hold him still. 

“ _Not_ so _loud_ ,” Brunt hisses, even though there's literally no one else in the corridor who can possibly overhear them. “What if someone else hears you?”

Quark makes an exasperated noise behind Brunt’s hand. He reaches up to yank it away, when he notices something as his hip brushes against Brunt’s front.

Brunt’s hard.

They both freeze.

It’s completely silent in the corridor except for the sound of their breathing.

Quark realizes Brunt is breathing faster than usual and blinking more rapidly than usual, and the part of Quark’s brain dedicated to idly calculating people’s assets through their clothes immediately sets to work calculating the girth and length of the hardness digging into his hip.

He raises a browridge.

Respectable. 

Not that Quark ever considers Brunt respectable as a person, but, if he had to find _something_ about the liquidator respectable…

Before Quark can muse any further, Brunt lets go of him and shoves him away as if burned, sputtering as if Quark were to blame somehow. 

“I - I can’t believe you - of all the _nerve_ \- you deviant -”

Quark begins to smile.

It’s not the first time someone’s struggled to accept their attraction to him.

“ _Why_ are you smiling?” Brunt groans. His lobes darken faintly with embarrassment, and Quark smiles wider. 

“Five hundred bars of latinum,” Quark says, walking closer, and Brunt takes a step back.

“What about it?” Brunt asks, continuing to walk backwards the closer Quark gets, hardness not diminishing one bit, and Quark continues smiling.

“It’s a lot to pay for some bartender’s future remains.”

“It’s nothing,” Brunt replies. He tries to curl his lips into a haughty smirk. “I can make five hundred bars in a week, easily. You can’t _possibly_ imagine how much profit I’ve already acquired, Quark.”

The remark’s meant to make him feel small, put him in his place, but Quark’s feeling something else entirely.

“Oh yeah?” Quark says lightly. “My imagination’s limited. Prove it to me.”

Brunt laughs. There’s a distinctly nervous tinge to it. “You don’t believe me?”

“Like I said, limited imagination.” Quark casts his eyes downwards, looking demure and humbled, and he can hear Brunt inhale sharply at the sight. “I’ve never seen such profit myself, of course.”

“Of course,” Brunt breathes, relishing his financial superiority. Quark grimaces slightly - the liquidator’s even easier to manipulate than he’d thought. “You’re _so_ poor.”

“Well,” Quark says dryly, “not _that_ poor -”

“Your own finances are so _microscopic_ in comparison - don’t bother protesting, I’ve checked - that such amounts must seem _fantastic_ to you, _outrageously_ out of your reach.”

“Absolutely,” Quark replies, keeping his eyes downcast, still playing the part of an awed pauper. “I’m still stunned you could afford to spend five hundred bars on me alone.”

“More than five hundred,” Brunt clarifies, too caught up in proving his wealth to realize what he’s saying. “I had to pay a hefty sum to Dr. Orpax to falsify your diagnosis, and another bribe to find out the date of your appointment, and - well.” He catches himself before he can reveal too much. “Let’s just say that more than a mere five hundred bars were involved.”

Quark bites his bottom lip. He glances up at Brunt through his eyelashes. “All for me?”

A breath catches in Brunt’s throat. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“If you wanted me dead,” Quark continues, light as a feather, still smiling, “you could’ve just killed me.”

“Again, Quark, limited imagination.” The words are more cutting than Brunt’s tone, which shifts toward something almost approaching fondness. “No wonder you’re such a failure as a businessman.”

It’s a patronizing fondness, but weird sort of fondness nonetheless, and it gives Quark something to work with.

He continues stepping closer until Brunt’s backed into the wall. The bar of latinum swinging from Brunt’s neck gently presses into his chest.

Lowering his voice to his most promiscuous purr, Quark asks him, “You want my body that badly, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brunt says, hands twitching with suppressed energy, clenching and unclenching before rummaging around in his jacket. 

He suddenly whips out a padd and taps out a sequence before thrusting it in Quark’s face. 

“Here,” Brunt says triumphantly, hand trembling as he holds out the padd. “Here’s your proof, Quark, that I bought you because I _can_ , because I have _thousands_ of bars of latinum in my name. You’re nothing more than, than an _impulse purchase_. Now do you believe me?”

Quark stares at the numbers on the padd. He’s starting to feel weak in the knees. “This is your current bank balance?”

Brunt nods. A smirk spreads across his face.

He leans closer, tilting his head to speak directly into Quark’s ear. “For only _one_ of my bank accounts, Quark.”

They’re both breathing quite hard. 

Brunt slowly leans away and places the padd back inside his jacket. The smirk fades. He lowers his eyes until he’s looking at Quark with a contemplative, half-lidded gaze.

Their faces are very close.

“So you bought me,” Quark murmurs, feeling more than a little slutty at the thought of it, even though he knows there are _many_ many reasons he shouldn’t be feeling any of the things he’s feeling right now, least of which is, oh, how Brunt’s thugs for hire beat him nearly to death some time ago, or how Brunt wants him to actually die - or does he?

“I did,” Brunt replies. He leans closer. “And I’d do it again.”

“Yeah?” Quark tilts his face up, until their lips almost touch. He watches Brunt’s eyes close. 

He grins.

He doesn’t move.

Brunt waits a beat, then opens his eyes again, looking irritated.

“What?” Quark asks innocently. “You thought I’d kiss you for free?”

Brunt frowns. “But I... I _bought_ …”

“Fifty-two discs of dessicated Quark. You bought me, but not _all_ of me. Not the pre-desiccated me.” Quark grins. “That’ll be extra.”

And even though Brunt’s glaring at him, he can tell that the liquidator’s intrigued.

“So you _do_ have some Ferengi left in you, after all.” Brunt’s ensuing smirk almost seems appreciative. 

Quark gazes down at the bar of latinum pressed between them, then flicks his eyes up. “Could use a little more.”

Chuckling, Brunt’s hands reach for Quark’s waist, but Quark slaps them away.

“Ah-uh,” Quark tuts. “That’ll be extra, too.”

Brunt inhales sharply, sounding aroused and annoyed all at once - a combination that Quark’s immensely familiar with.

“Fine,” Brunt replies. He pulls out the padd again. “Name your price.”

“Not just price,” Quark chides. “Other terms as well.”

He can tell Brunt would rather toss the padd aside and grab his face for a bruising kiss, but Brunt’s traditionalism, triggered by the prospect of negotiation, makes him refrain.

“Fine,” Brunt repeats, plastering his gritted teeth into a grin. “That’s good. You’re finally starting to sound more like a real Ferengi.”

Quark bites back a retort about how he’s _always_ been a real Ferengi, which isn’t what Brunt wants to hear, and thus won’t be helpful, no matter how true it is.

What might be helpful, though:

He bites his lip and affects embarrassed pleasure at Brunt's words.

The gesture makes Brunt stare intensely at his mouth, as if he’d much rather be the one biting Quark’s lip, and he hovers close, longing -

Quark steps back, then inclines his head back down the corridor. “Let’s discuss this back to my quarters.”

Brunt sighs, but acquiesces. “I suppose that makes sense. We can’t risk your dear Constable catching us, now can we?”

The thought hadn’t crossed Quark’s mind at all, though he always did feel a scandalous thrill whenever Odo walked in on him. 

Odo’s in the middle of his regenerative cycle, but if Brunt doesn’t know that, Quark might as well pretend he's trying not to get caught. 

“We sure can’t,” Quark replies. He reaches out and grabs Brunt’s hand, grimacing slightly at the overly delighted noise that Brunt makes in response, then turns the grimace into a grin. “C’mon.”

And he leads Brunt away.


	2. Chapter 2

They discuss the new terms on Quark’s narrow couch, reclining together on a space meant for one. Quark drapes himself all over Brunt, legs kicked over Brunt’s lap, head resting on Brunt’s chest as they scroll through the contract draft on the padd, and Brunt wraps an arm around his back to keep him in place. It’s almost cozy.

Still, it could be cozier. Quark keeps moving around to get more comfortable, and Brunt keeps groaning in frustration whenever he does. Thus, Quark makes sure to move around quite a bit.

“Are you _sure_ you wouldn’t rather discuss this somewhere else?” Brunt eventually asks, voice strained. “Your bed _has_ to be bigger than this pitiful excuse for a couch.”

“We’ll get there,” Quark says mildly. He doesn’t look up from the padd in his hands. “But it’s not going to happen any faster if you keep insulting my furniture.” He shifts his weight again, rubbing against Brunt as deliberately as he can. “Guess I ought to get more comfortable, hm?”

Brunt’s arm tightens around him. “Stop being such a lobetease.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Quark says, even though he knows exactly what Brunt’s talking about. He slowly tilts his head upwards and watches Brunt lean closer. He lowers his eyelids and watches Brunt do the same -

Then Quark stops, just short of kissing distance.

“Quark.”

“What?” Quark asks, smiling. He bats his eyes for good measure. Riling Brunt up is the most entertaining thing he’s done in weeks.

Brunt glares at him, then puts on a wan smile. He tries to appeal to reason. “ _Stimulating_ as this discussion has been, why prolong it? I’ve already voided the contract with the Futures Exchange, _and_ transmitted a confirmation -”

Quark leans up and licks at the outer edge of Brunt’s ear, a delicate little flick of the tongue that makes Brunt shut up immediately. His ears are full of Brunt’s noisy exhales and racing pulse. He grins.

“There’s no real point in contracting for more latinum if I’m not alive to spend it, is there?” Quark rests his chin on Brunt’s chest. “Rule 125 -”

“You can't make a deal if you're dead,” Brunt recites. His fingers tremble at Quark’s waist. He tries to slip a knee between Quark’s thighs, but Quark shakes his head.

“Not so fast,” Quark pats Brunt’s chest, jingling the gold-pressed metallic accents on the liquidator’s overcoat. He keeps his thighs pressed tightly together as he squirms away from Brunt’s knee, and Brunt lets his leg flop back down onto the couch, thwarted.

“Quark,” Brunt says, trying another tactic, a weaker tone, something designed to garner pity, “I’ve agreed to _all_ the terms you’ve requested -”

“ _And_ you tried to bury a stipulation of _five_ orgasms in one of the longer clauses,” Quark notes, arching a browridge. “Can you even handle that many in one day?”

Brunt huffs, offended. “I wouldn’t have _suggested_ the amount if I couldn’t. And they wouldn’t have been one-sided.”

“Uh-huh.” Quark drips his reply in sarcasm, trying not to think about how Brunt might try to coax that many orgasms out of him, but then he’s thinking about not thinking about it, and the not-thinking makes him arch slightly against Brunt’s stomach.

Brunt stifles a longing noise. “Quark, _please_ -”

“Be patient,” Quark says, even though his lobes are starting to tingle from the sound of Brunt begging, and he’s starting to think it might not be a bad idea to relocate to the bedroom. “I have to make sure you didn’t throw in any other surprises. If I’m not careful, I might get outsmarted by you. Again.”

He must not have sounded as sarcastic as he felt, because Brunt’s smiling back at him.

“Oh,” Brunt says, sounding pleased. “Well. I suppose I can’t blame you for taking extra precautions. You’re not used to contracting with someone of my calibre, after all.”

Suppressing an annoyed groan, Quark smiles back with the most simpering smile he can muster. “Brunt?”

“Yes?”

“The quieter you are, the sooner I’ll be done with those precautions.”

“Oh. Of course.” Brunt looks appropriately apologetic, then lowers his voice to a murmur. “And the sooner I can bring you to orgasm number one.”

Quark blinks.

Something about the low tone, and the way Brunt’s holding him, and the knowledge that he’s about to make quite a bit more than five hundred bars of latinum - without having to kill himself, always a huge plus - whatever it is, it makes Quark’s mouth go dry.

He returns his attention to the padd.

“Stop talking,” Quark tells him, and Brunt obeys.

 

* * *

 

Two thumb impressions and a couple of back-up subspace transmissions later -

“Confirmed?” Brunt asks, craning his neck to see the padd in Quark’s hands.

Quark holds it up. The digital seal flashes in a regular pattern, on and off, reflecting a faint glow on Brunt’s face. “Confirmed.”

He barely has time to suck in a breath before Brunt knocks the padd aside and yanks Quark forward for a rough kiss, hand at the back of his neck, teeth scraping his lips without drawing blood - maybe Brunt knows more about kissing than Quark had thought - and Quark becomes aware of Brunt ranting at him, punctuating each word with another kiss:

“You - _infuriating_ \- little - _slut_ -”

The dirty talk shouldn’t work on him as well as it does. Brunt continues berating him, knees shoving his thighs apart, provoking a startled whimper from the back of Quark’s throat. Blood rushes to his lobes. He can barely hear Brunt mutter something about hoping Quark would be worth it. 

Quark moans shamelessly into Brunt’s mouth as he thinks about how much latinum he’s taken from the liquidator, which had to be some kind of justice, right? Reacquiring the profits that Brunt had acquired from fining the hard work and righteous scheming of other Ferengi businessmen? Like that one Terran in Jadzia’s holoprogram, but even better - instead of giving to the poor, Quark was giving to himself. Definitely an improvement.

The thought puts Quark in a great mood, and he gyrates his hips against Brunt’s, interested in provoking more action beyond kissing. But all Brunt does is kiss him even more ardently in response, like dominating Quark’s mouth will somehow cure all his other frustrations with Quark, and even though it’s not nearly as instantaneously gratifying as oo-mox, it’s starting to make Quark dizzy with the sense of being conquered.

“Hey,” Quark says, half-laughing, half-breathless. He squeezes Brunt’s shoulder and gently shoves himself out of the kiss. “Slow down - you’re going to make a mess of your clothes at this rate.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brunt replies, looking irritated at the interruption. “I’ve been taking my injections.”

“Injections -?” Quark frowns. “Of what?”

Brunt laughs, but it’s not as derisory as it could be. “You’re such a _bumpkin_ , Quark. They’re quite standard nowadays - I’d mention the brand name, but it likely wouldn’t mean anything to you.” He grins. “Let’s just say they’re inhibitors for avoiding premature… completion.”

Realization dawns. Suddenly the minimum of five makes sense. “And you’ve been injecting yourself with these… inhibitors… regularly?”

“Oh, yes.” Brunt rubs the back of Quark’s neck in a languid, possessive manner. “I have to, for maximum efficiency.”

“And what exactly _is_ the maximum efficiency?”

Brunt shrugs. “Supposedly half a dozen orgasms before the typical refractory period kicks in.”

“Supposedly,” Quark echoes, dead-pan. “So, I take it you haven’t achieved maximum efficiency yet?”

“...Not as such, no.” Brunt clears his throat. “You’d be surprised at how few people can recognize the opportunity, but a good businessman should always be prepared.”

Quark nods. “Of course. I’m still not agreeing to five, though.”

“Oh.” Brunt tries not to look to disappointed, but his tongo face isn’t as inscrutable as it might have been in a situation without a lapful of slutty Quark. “Three, then?”

Quark considers denying even that, but three’s a doable number. He’s gotten to three before. He hadn’t been able to walk comfortably for some time afterwards, but he’s gotten there.

He wonders how Hanok’s doing. If the Karemma still thinks about him sometimes, and how long that night had been, even if it felt too short by the end...

The memory makes him squirm, and Brunt inhales sharply - Quark’s been wriggling right against his crotch again, and he gives Quark a warning squeeze to be still.

“Well, Quark?”

“Three for me,” Quark replies, snapping back into business mode. He takes care to add, “I’m not making any guarantees for your own satisfaction.”

Brunt’s reply does have a derisory note in it, this time. “Believe me, I’ll manage.”

“And I’m not amending the contract, so the number’s not binding.”

“Of course.”

“And neither of us can force the other to -”

“Yes, yes, understood,” Brunt says, nodding furiously. “Quark, can we - _please_ \- resume?”

“Okay -”

Quark cuts himself off with a loud gasp when Brunt starts stroking his lobes.

He didn’t even feel Brunt lift the hand at the back of his neck, or remove the hand that was wrapped around his back. All Quark feels is boneless. The liquidator’s hands are firm and assured and nimble and Quark melts helplessly against Brunt, eyes wide, and Brunt gazes back with a greedy stare, drinking in every twitch and quiver he can see.

Brunt’s wicked hands render Quark moaning and bucking against him with an embarrassing speed. Clearly the liquidator has done this before, and he’s good at it, and Quark supposes that makes sense, given the messy connections between sex and getting ahead in Ferengi society. And Brunt, somehow, has gotten very far ahead.

Quark struggles to remember how to speak. He can barely even manage to formulate a full question, losing his words to the involuntary noises Brunt keeps provoking out of him.

“Wh- ah! - what are - mmm - why are you - _oh_ -”

His eyes flutter shut as bliss overtakes him, triggering an inner orgasm - no emissions, no obvious release, just a sweet bloom of pleasure and contentment that leaves Quark trembling. It’s not enough to require a refractory period - a blessing, since Ferengi were physically vulnerable enough already, even without post-oomox relaxation to lower their defenses - but it’s certainly quite the mood booster.

Quark sighs happily as he lets the aftermath wash over him.

He feels Brunt’s hands leave his ears, slowly trailing down his spine before resting at the small of his back.

He hears Brunt’s voice, low and lustful, whispering in his ear.

“That’s one, Quark.”

 

* * *

 

Quark lets Brunt drag down the zipper to his pajamas, exposing more and more of himself to the liquidator’s greedy eyes, until Brunt’s peeling off the opened fabric from his bare shoulders, then his thighs and legs, and he’s trying to get Brunt to at least remove his own jacket, for Exchequer’s sake. 

He refuses to strip completely nude while Brunt’s still fully clothed. Not that sitting perched in Brunt’s lap in only a pair of lacy briefs from the latest Marauder Haus collection is significantly different than wearing nothing at all, but technicalities were all Quark had sometimes, and the wine-colored lace at least gives him the illusion of _something_ between his bare skin and Brunt.

The room’s so much colder without his pajamas on. 

Quark shivers as he waits for Brunt to give in to his persuasion. He had played up the part of the wayward Ferengi, intimidated by Brunt’s layered opulence, too intimidated to strip down completely in such a clothed presence. 

“Fine,” Brunt sighs. “The jacket’s coming off.” He shrugs out of it, lifting his pelvis up so he can slide the coattails out from underneath him, almost bouncing Quark up in his lap as he does so. “Happy?”

It takes Quark a moment to recover from the near-direct stimulation of motion through lace, and he stifles a whimpery sound.

“No,” Quark replies, trying not to think about Brunt fucking him through his lingerie. “Take off more.”

Brunt stares at him.

The tongo face is on, full force, masking Brunt’s thoughts, and Quark can’t tell if Brunt’s offended or not.

“All right,” Brunt says eventually, and Quark can’t believe him at first.

“Wait, really?”

Brunt nods. He immediately starts undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, and Quark’s suddenly flustered by the sight of Brunt being so obedient.

The waistcoat lands on the floor.

“You’re not even going to fold that?” Quark asks, joking, but Brunt takes him seriously.

“Do you want me to?” Brunt asks, and the room suddenly feels charged with a tense energy, and it’s not just because Quark’s sitting in Brunt’s very clothed lap in barely anything at all.

“What?” 

“Do you want me to,” Brunt repeats, more like a statement, and his voice lowers to a distracting husk. Even his habitual lisp doesn’t seem as annoying as usual. “Tell me, Quark.”

“Oh. Uh.” Quark swallows hard. “No. You don’t have to.” 

Brunt watches him silently, attentive, waiting. Quark doesn’t feel cold anymore.

“Take off your cravat,” Quark says next, nodding his chin at the elaborately embroidered fabric around Brunt’s neck. “And that ridiculous necklace.” 

The bar of gold-pressed latinum lands on the floor with a loud thump, followed shortly by the soft, barely detectable sound of the cravat landing on top of it. 

“Now the shirt,” Quark says, almost in a whisper. 

Brunt does so. He cuts a trim figure underneath his sleeveless undershirt, and when Quark falls silent, Brunt folds his arms in front of his chest, eerily reminding Quark of -

“Unfold your arms,” Quark orders sharply.

He feels a little bad about the sharpness - Brunt looks startled by his tone, but quickly obeys, nonetheless, leaning back on his palms on the couch, ready for Quark’s next command.

Frustrated, tense, and suddenly incredibly eager to fuck, Quark scrambles off Brunt’s lap. He reaches for Brunt’s hand, and Brunt makes a surprised sound when Quark’s fingers clasp around his own.

“Bed,” Quark explains. “Now.”

Brunt nods, and follows him wordlessly to the bedroom.

 

* * *

 

A few plaintive touches at the jaw here, some soft nuzzles by the lobes there, and Quark manages to convince Brunt to strip off the rest of his clothes by the time they get to the bed. 

He lands on his back with a soft thump. His sheets feel scandalously textured underneath his bare skin. Brunt rakes his eyes over Quark’s reclining form, taking stock of every detail, and Quark has the distinct feeling of being appraised - not as a Ferengi, not as a man, but as something else. 

It’s a weird feeling. Quark frowns slightly when all Brunt does is continue looking. So he makes a point of parting his legs. An invitation.

Brunt immediately moves forward to nestle between Quark’s spread thighs, almost fumbling the container of lubricant Quark had replicated earlier.

They stare at each other as Brunt slicks himself up, and that charged energy from earlier returns, making Quark fall silent as he stares at Brunt’s eyes, then Brunt’s busy hand.

All of Brunt’s earlier bravado seems to have vanished with his discarded clothing. He looks at Quark with an open longing, one that had been masked under layers of contempt and derision, and Quark can’t lie - he’s starting to get turned on by the sight. 

He scoots closer, not even with the intent to be lewd, but Brunt reacts like he’s just done a desperately obscene thing, and Quark makes a questioning sound.

“Were you like this on the freighter?” Brunt asks in a low rasp, and Quark blinks, taken aback.

“How do you know about the freighter?”

“I know all about your past, Quark. I made it my business to know.”

Brunt slowly stops stroking himself. He leans closer and pushes Quark’s legs a little wider apart, hands lingering along the soft skin of Quark’s inner thighs.

“For example, I know you acquired a disruptor pistol some time shortly after becoming the chef. Unusual acquisition for a Ferengi freighter cook, isn’t it? Rather severe.”

Quark licks his lips. “Never hurts to be prepared.”

Brunt hums as he begins tangling his fingers in Quark’s folds down below, sensually massaging him through the slickness. Quark jerks his hips upwards with a surrendering noise, a soft exhale that makes Brunt’s humming hit a pleased note.

“Prepared for demanding customers, who wanted more than what was on the menu?”

Quark’s panting now, eyes bright as he stares at Brunt, whose gaze is locked on him below. 

“Just in case,” Quark replies, and he starts thrusting himself back on Brunt’s fingers. “Sometimes I'd get tired, cooking for so many people.”

“Mm.” Brunt’s eyes are downcast, but Quark can tell they’re gleaming. “All those freighter ruffians, coveting a delectable morsel for themselves.”

The fingers stretch him out considerably, and Quark clenches wetly around them, trembling. A soft moan escapes. He arches up into Brunt’s hand, and Brunt explores him further, trying to coax more out of him.

“That’s enough,” Quark manages to gasp out. “Brunt, just shut up and _fuck_ me -"

He whines as Brunt slowly slips out of him, a needy and pathetic sound that makes Brunt groan in response. The liquidator squeezes his thigh.

They both shudder when Brunt lines himself up, and Quark averts his face as Brunt presses inside.

The noises they both make resound in Quark’s ears with an unholy harmony. He can’t remember this happening with anyone else, or feeling this free to be this loud, and he makes an exceptionally piercing cry when Brunt angles inside of him just right.

“Yes,” Brunt murmurs, repeating the word as he slowly thrusts in and out, and Quark wishes he would stop talking. He’d rather focus on how Brunt feels inside of him, thick and hard and insistent, filling him in a way that makes him writhe against the sheets. He wants to tell Brunt to shut up, but only wordless noises come out of Quark’s mouth, hot and desperate and anguished. 

Brunt fucks him like a conquest, steady and claiming, and Quark doesn’t want to enjoy it as much as he does, but he keeps thrusting back in rhythm, and he keeps clutching at Brunt’s back, pressing as much of himself to as much of Brunt as he can.

His face still averted, Quark can’t see Brunt lean closer, but he feels Brunt’s cheek rub against his, and Brunt’s ear stroke against his own, sending bolts of pleasure shooting through them both. Blood pounds in his lobes from the intense stimulation up above and down below, and Quark whimpers brokenly, his entire body shaking underneath Brunt’s. The thrill builds and builds within him, until it’s too much -

He hears Brunt make a triumphant sound, somewhere between a groan and a chuckle, before it’s drowned out by his own orgasmic cry.

 

* * *

 

“Two,” Brunt mumbles into his neck. 

Before Quark really knows what he’s doing, he’s already petting the back of Brunt’s head.

“Let’s rest up a little before three,” Quark murmurs.

At that, Brunt lifts up his head. “You’re willing to…?”

Quark gives him a slow shrug. “Mm-hmm.”

Smiling too gently for it to count as a smirk, Brunt lets his head flop back down in the crook of Quark’s neck. The way Brunt’s nose rubs against his skin resembles a nuzzle. Quark wonders if he should nuzzle Brunt back, but Brunt’s face is buried against his neck, mouth slowly moving along his throat in a series of lazy, open-mouthed kisses. He loosely slings an arm around Quark’s waist. 

Quark’s feeling good, with Brunt cuddling him, the both of them blissed out and languid. 

Too good.

“Oh,” Quark says.

Brunt pauses, lifting his lips away from Quark’s throat. “What?”

“Bonding hormones.”

“What about them?”

“We both have them.”

“Like any Ferengi,” Brunt notes, too mellow to sound sarcastic. “Why mention it?”

“Because - mmph…” Quark trails off temporarily as Brunt presses a slow kiss to his mouth. “We’re - mmm… Brunt, _stop_ -”

Brunt stills, leans away minutely. He stares at Quark’s mouth as he says, “Sorry. You were saying.”

“What was I saying?”

“Bonding hormones.”

“Oh, right.” Quark licks his lips. 

Ferengi could train themselves to fight the instinctual tug of the bonding hormones - and Quark has, mostly - but it’s been years since he’s had sex with another Ferengi, and he’s forgotten the potency of two sets of bonding hormones interacting with each other.

“They’re making us more attached to us each other,” Quark explains. “Now that we’ve fucked.”

Brunt nods exaggeratedly, and Quark wants to scowl, but the hormones dampen his annoyance and all he can muster is a faint smile. Like Brunt just did something endearing.

Quark doesn’t want to find any part of Brunt endearing.

Except maybe his cock. (And that’s a big maybe.)

“I know,” Brunt says. “What did you think was going to happen?”

“Not that.”

Brunt reaches up to pat his cheek. It should feel more patronizing than it does, but Quark’s leaning into the touch like it’s a caress, and Brunt rests his palm on his cheek like it is.

“Too late,” Brunt tells him.

The liquidator’s smiling.

It’s unnerving.


	3. Chapter 3

A growing sense of dread cuts through Quark’s serene post-coital daze.

He looks back up at Brunt, who continues smiling at him and palming his face like it’s some kind of prize. The gesture feels intimate, and Quark tries to think of it as something else. The possessive hand of a buyer evaluating his purchased goods, perhaps. But Brunt’s hand is too gentle, and so is the expression on his face. Quark decides he hates it.

Quark flicks his head with an irritated whine, shaking Brunt’s hand off his cheek.

Brunt exaggeratedly opens his palm in a one-handed version of the traditional Ferengi begging gesture - yes, no touching, he understands.

His hand hovers in the air for a moment - wrist displayed to Quark, fingers angled away - and a whiff of something costly, with a hint of spice and musk, catches Quark’s attention.

Brunt’s cologne.

Much to his dismay, Quark realizes he likes it. Usually he _hates_ cologne and perfume. Most people apply too much, and with a sensitive bartender’s palate like his, any strong scent bothers him. But right now, Brunt smells just wonderful, and Quark’s enjoying breathing him in.

The feeling of dread grows stronger - this was part of some nefarious plan, Quark suspects, some diabolical scheme meant to make him more susceptible to Brunt’s non-existent charms. That had to be it. Bonding hormones were notoriously helpful for ensuring bribes, obtaining favors, and smoothing over all sorts of conflicts on Ferenginar. He wouldn’t put it past Brunt to use his own body against him somehow. He’d have to stay alert. 

Quark narrows his eyes.

Brunt gazes back at him with an expression so transparent that it _has_ to be hiding some other ulterior motive. The liquidator couldn’t possibly enjoy just _looking_ at him. No, it has to be masking something, because no one could look at Quark like that so sincerely, like he’s some cherished bauble or precious rare gem. 

As Quark frets, his breathing quickens. 

Brunt tilts his head like he’s listening for something. He slowly lowers his hand back down. He looks delighted.

“What?” Quark asks, irritated.

“You like my cologne.”

Embarrassment colors Quark’s face. Brunt must have heard him inhale.

“No I don’t,” Quark replies quickly. “I hate it, actually.”

Brunt grins. “Do you, now.”

“It’s disgusting. Rancid.” He squirms underneath Brunt. “You should ask for a refund. Maybe you got a bad batch.”

“Mm.” Brunt leans down, allowing Quark to examine him even more closely. “Sorry.”

Quark pouts. He tries not to inhale too obviously. “You should be.”

That earns him a laugh.

“It’s true,” Quark insists, leaning up despite himself, nose brushing against Brunt’s collarbone. Just to get a closer sniff. “I hate it. I’m only smelling you again to confirm how much I hate it.”

“Of course,” Brunt says indulgently, sounding far too indulgent for Quark’s liking, but Quark’s too preoccupied with mouthing Brunt’s neck to comment.

Maybe tasting is the better way to confirm how much he hates Brunt’s cologne. Taste and smell were interconnected, weren’t they? Something like that. He’s pretty sure.

Quark sucks at Brunt’s neck, provoking a low moan. He tastes salt and sweat, and the faint metallic tang of gold-pressed latinum from the chain Brunt customarily wears. The combination is strangely addicting. He inadvertently nuzzles the underside of Brunt’s jaw as he continues, and Brunt gasps, hips surging against Quark’s.

Brunt’s aroused reaction is distracting. Quark’s thoughts begin to fragment. He struggles to remember why he was doing what he was doing. The bonding hormones leave him unfocused and dimly aware of his gradual loss of control.

That's it - the bonding hormones.

He needs to stop the hormones from intensifying. He needs to complete the contract.

Their lower halves are tangled up in Quark’s sheets, and the light layers of cloth feel decadent on Quark’s bare skin. Brunt’s already slipped a limb in between Quark’s legs, thigh rubbing against thigh with a delicious friction. Quark smiles to himself. Shouldn’t be too difficult to speed things along. 

He trails his nose along Brunt’s jaw, then speaks into Brunt’s ear.

“I’m ready for round three,” Quark whispers.

The stimulation makes Brunt press him back against the pillows.

“Aren’t you still sore?” Brunt asks. He slowly massages Quark’s shoulders, fingers trembling. “I don’t want to make it worse.”

“You won’t,” Quark replies. He undulates his hips, rolling them upwards in a wanton move that normally would earn him _some_ kind of immediate response, but Brunt seems reluctant to react the way Quark wants him to, even actively resisting the urge to thrust against him. Like he genuinely cares about Quark’s comfort, which couldn’t possibly be the case, or like he's trying to prolong their evening, or something. 

Quark can’t possibly fathom why. The sooner they’re done, the sooner Brunt can go back to his lucrative life on Ferenginar, striking fear in the hearts of disreputable Ferengi businessmen everywhere.

“Wouldn’t you rather rest a while?” Brunt presses a kiss to the side of Quark’s mouth. His hands are still braced on Quark’s shoulders, pinning him down to the mattress with a tantalizing weight. “It’ll feel better after you’ve had some time to recover.”

A dirty grin spreads across Quark’s face. “You want it to feel better for me?”

“Yes,” Brunt murmurs. He nuzzles Quark’s cheek in a languid manner. “Otherwise you’ll be too sensitive. Fragile. And the third time will be over too soon.”

The patronizing tone’s a little insulting. Quark arches a browridge. “Not because of me,” he asserts.

“You’re not the one with the injections,” Brunt reminds him. He sounds fond. “I could play you like a game of dabo, Quark.”

Quark snorts. If anyone was going to play anyone else like a game of dabo, it’d be _him_ , not Brunt. “Bet you couldn’t.”

“I could. I -”

But before Brunt can finish his thought, Quark reaches up for Brunt’s ears.

It’s been a while since Quark’s been on the giving end of oo-mox rather than the receiving end, but it doesn’t take long for him to get back up to speed. He starts with a series of sensual little caresses, and Brunt’s breathing immediately changes in response, growing heavier and louder. Quark smirks as he thinks about how he’ll build up the strokes, just enough to bring Brunt to a quick climax.

Solely to prove a point, of course.

The noises Brunt’s making are more than a little intriguing. Watching Brunt succumb to his ministrations feels… good. Brunt’s moans come from somewhere deep and desperate, lewd sounds that make Quark’s hips swivel underneath.

(Which was purely an instinctual reaction to auditory stimuli, and not because of Brunt specifically.)

Quark wants to hear more.

He varies his technique, artfully trailing his fingertips around the outer edges of the lobes, tracing the auricles with a teasing, gentle pressure. He marvels at how easily Brunt melts against him, how a drag of the fingernail makes Brunt kiss him hard enough to bruise. Brunt’s moans turn throaty and guttural as Quark intensifies his touches, and the sounds resonate in Quark’s ears with an alluring, almost hypnotic timbre.

Quark breaks off the kiss and leans up to bring his mouth closer, vocalizing the dirtiest breathy exhales he can muster, directly into Brunt’s ear.

Brunt’s hands leave his shoulders and scramble until they reach his waist, and suddenly they’re grinding against each other. Fingers dig into his backside and Quark arches up with a whimper, rubbing against Brunt in a way that makes Brunt grip him even harder and moan even louder. He hears another moan escape his own throat as Brunt grinds his hips into the mattress, and Quark’s very conscious of still being slick from earlier, so he parts his legs, ready and receptive…

But before he can reach down to guide Brunt inside of him, Brunt makes a surprised noise. His hips jerk against Quark’s, and his entire body shakes.

Looking stunned, Brunt collapses onto the mattress next to him, gasping.

They gaze at each other in silence for a moment. Brunt’s breathing heavily, chest heaving, looking like an absolute wreck as he looks at Quark, and Quark wants very much to sit on his cock and ride it until they’re both sobbing.

“Two,” Quark notes, turning his head to drink in the sight. He can’t help but grin at how easy that was. “Guess I’m not the only sensitive one, hmm?”

He’s still grinning when Brunt reaches out to grip back of his neck, and he giggles as Brunt drags him close to crush their mouths together. It’s a rough, punishing sort of kiss, one that presses Quark’s head back into the pillow. The points of Brunt’s teeth graze Quark’s lips. Quark whines from the back of his throat - he doesn’t want to get bitten - and Brunt breaks away, panting.

“You’re such a _brat_ ,” Brunt mutters, keeping the back of Quark’s neck in a tight grip. Something about Brunt’s tone makes Quark imagine getting flipped over onto his stomach and fucked hard from behind.

He shakes the image out of his head.

“I’m not _that_ much younger than you,” Quark replies blithely. He can hear the breathiness in his own voice, and he swallows to get it out. “Right?” He can’t remember if he knows Brunt’s age, and Brunt’s too preoccupied with gazing into his eyes to volunteer the information. “Unless I am, and you’re robbing the cradle -”

Brunt huffs. “As if I would _need_ to rob anything.”

Quark suppresses the urge to laugh at how offended Brunt sounds. “It’s just a figure of speech.”

“Sounds like a deviant _Federation_ expression to me.”

Quark shrugs. He smiles. “Probably.”

He can’t stop grinning. He’s enjoying the possessive feel of Brunt’s hand on the back of his neck, and the irritated arousal he sees in Brunt’s eyes. He’s comfortable dealing with irritated arousal. It’s much less terrifying than the idea of Brunt developing actual affection for him.

“So,” Quark says, wriggling closer, delighting in how the movement makes Brunt stare at him in open desire. “Round three?”

 

* * *

 

Quark shudders as he sinks down on Brunt’s erection.

“Take your time,” Brunt murmurs. He lies on his back underneath Quark, fingers splayed along the outside of Quark’s thighs. “I could watch you do this all night.”

Warmth flares through Quark’s cheeks. Brunt sounds like he means it.

The thought appeals to Quark’s exhibitionist side far too easily, but he doesn’t want to give in to the temptation. He reminds himself that he _doesn’t_ want to do this all night. Repeated sex would only intensify the bonding hormones making them attached to each other, and he can’t afford to get attached to someone like _Brunt_.

That’s why he imposed a limit, earlier. And he’s going to stick to the limit.

He’s almost completely certain he will.

It’d be easier if Brunt didn’t keep staring up at him with that stupidly adoring gaze.

Before he can really think things through, Quark slams himself down so hard that tears spring to his eyes and a pained whimper escapes his throat.

_Bad idea, really bad -_

Brunt makes a startled noise, shifting underneath him so abruptly that Quark gasps, more tears blurring his vision. 

Another pained whimper escapes him as Brunt sits up in bed, bringing them closer together, and before Quark can say anything, Brunt immediately peppers him with consoling kisses, hands reaching up to caress Quark’s crying face. 

“Are you all right?” Brunt asks, sounding so genuinely concerned that Quark feels irritated. He’s not some delicate offworlder _female_ , and Brunt had no right to fuss over him like that, not when he's buried to the hilt inside Quark’s trembling body.

“I’m _fine,_ ” Quark says, but he interrupts himself with a truly pathetic sniffle. He won’t admit it to Brunt, but he’s still sensitive from their earlier fucking, and he knows he’ll feel sore in the morning, and the knowledge that he did this to himself irritates him even more.

“You’re not,” Brunt chides gently. “I’ll pull out -”

“Brunt, _no_ -”

“You’re in no state -”

He groans when Quark stubbornly lifts himself up and thrusts back down, and Quark stifles a pitiful keen at the self-inflicted roughness, and Brunt digs his fingers into Quark’s thighs.

“Quark,” Brunt gasps in a strained voice. “You don’t have to - oh…”

The rest of Brunt’s protest dissolves into a low moan as Quark rocks up and down in his lap, and Brunt thrusts into him with a helpless, erratic sort of rhythm, face buried in Quark’s neck, nuzzling him like his life depended on it.

“Harder,” Quark demands. He still aches, but Brunt’s aroused nuzzles help stoke a warmth in his belly that helps him remember how to make things better for himself. He wriggles around, readjusting himself until he’s angled properly and riding on Brunt’s cock with pleasure.

But somehow Brunt’s still holding back, not quite slamming into him the way Quark wants him to - like he’s afraid he’ll hurt Quark further, and it’s too considerate, and Quark hates it. He has to do something about it.

Quark lifts a hand to caress the back of Brunt’s head. The touch makes Brunt’s hips stutter underneath him, but it still doesn’t get the result Quark wants, so he leans close to Brunt’s ear, until his lips almost brush the surface.

“Brunt,” Quark breathes, rolling his hips, clenching his muscles with each downstroke. “Please, Brunt, _please_ , we don’t have to stop at three, just fuck me harder, _please_ -”

He chokes on his own plea, almost sobbing with relief as Brunt obediently complies, fucking him to the point of incoherency. Each forceful thrust rocks him upwards with a whimper, and he clasps the back of Brunt’s head like a lifeline, getting closer and closer -

Quark’s climax hits him like a tidal wave. He cries out so loudly that he almost misses the word that Brunt calls him shortly after - but only almost.

“Treasure,” Brunt gasps, and he slams into Quark with a desperate final thrust.

The word scorches Quark’s ears, singing in his lobes as he collapses on top of Brunt.

 

* * *

 

“Did you mean it?” Quark asks into Brunt’s neck afterwards.

Brunt slowly rubs his back. He doesn’t reply.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed about it,” Quark tells him. “Plenty of people say things they don’t mean when they come. It’s okay.”

Brunt continues rubbing his back in silence. 

“Fine,” Quark says, shrugging. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

So Brunt called him a pet name normally reserved for females. Beloved females. No big deal. 

Not that Quark can remember anyone else ever calling him that, or anything close to that, but it’s no big deal.

He snuggles closer to Brunt, feeling cozy in Brunt’s embrace.

Quark hasn’t been cuddled like this in ages. Plus side of having sex with another Ferengi - the post-coital cuddling instinct actually gets reciprocated.

He feels Brunt’s cheek press against his forehead. 

“Hm?” Quark glances up. “What?”

Brunt sighs. His voice is so soft when he replies that Quark can barely hear it.

“Nothing,” Brunt says.

 

* * *

 

They don’t speak when they fuck each other for the last time that evening, but Quark’s not sure if he can simply call it fucking anymore.

He’s not sure what to call it, just like he’s not sure what to do with the tenderness Brunt keeps giving him.

Brunt pins him down to the mattress with his entire body, cradling Quark’s head in his hands, kissing him slowly and deeply, like an overly affectionate drunk, like time’s of no absolutely no consequence at all. 

He moves inside Quark equally slowly and deeply, resisting Quark’s tearful attempts to speed things up. Quark tightens his muscles and Brunt stops moving, waiting for Quark to relax before he resumes. Quark tries to give Brunt another round of oo-mox, but Brunt knocks his hands aside, even pins down his wrists - lightly, but firmly - to make him stop. Quark tries to beg him, but Brunt simply kisses away his protests, until Quark surrenders, tears stinging his eyes as he rocks in tandem with Brunt.

Somehow the gentle sex feels more devastating than everything that came before it, overwhelming Quark and exhausting him beyond words.

Brunt comes inside of him with a soft sigh and a tender nuzzle against his cheek. Warmth floods him, and it’s enough to make Quark follow suit shortly after, crying noisily into Brunt’s neck. Brunt immediately rolls over onto his side to pull Quark into a sleepy cuddle. 

Quark dimly recalls that falling asleep together wasn’t part of the contract. He barely can recall the contract itself, but he’s certain that wasn’t part of it. Mostly certain, anyway. 

As Quark drifts off to sleep in Brunt’s arms, he realizes he’s not sure if the bonding hormones can explain everything anymore. 

He figures he worry about it in the morning. 

 

* * *

 

The next day, Quark wakes up to the sound of Brunt typing away on a padd.

He cracks an eye open, then the other eye. Brunt’s sitting next to him, a few of Quark’s pillows propped behind his back, blankets pulled up to his chest. He looks perfectly at home in Quark’s bed. It’s a surreal sight.

“Morning, Quark,” Brunt says cheerfully, pressing an enthusiastic kiss to Quark’s sleepy brow before resuming his typing. 

“Brunt?”

“F.C.A.,” Brunt adds, completely unnecessarily and utterly obnoxiously. He finishes typing on the padd with a flourish, then sets it down on top of the blankets, looking satisfied with himself.

Quark stares at him. “You’re still here.”

“Yes, Quark,” Brunt says with a patronizing lilt. “I am.”

“But the contract’s over,” Quark says, confused. “You didn’t have to stay.” 

A hurt look flickers across Brunt’s face, but it passes.

“Right,” Brunt says. “I didn’t have to.”

Quark glances down at the padd. “What were you typing?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.” And Brunt holds up the padd for his inspection. It’s some boring-looking F.C.A. report, referring to an audit that took place halfway across the quadrant. “Just a little task to get me started for the day.”

“Oh, okay.” Quark rubs at his eyes. It’s not the first time he’s slept with a workaholic. He yawns, then scoots closer. “Brunt?”

Brunt immediately lowers the padd. He looks wary and hopeful all at once. “Yes?” 

“Last night was good.” A heated blush colors Quark’s cheeks. “Very good.”

Brunt nods in agreement. His face softens into a tender smile. “I enjoyed myself.”

“Yeah?” Quark grins. “Got your latinum’s worth?”

Brunt snorts. “You could say that.”

“Well, great.” Quark hesitates, then adds, “It’s a long trip back to Ferenginar. Stop by the bar and have a snail juice before you head out. To tide you over.”

“I _have_ replicators on my ship, Quark.”

“Yeah, I know. Top of the line, no doubt. But I doubt they make drinks that taste as good as something mixed by hand. That’ll be my hand, by the way.”

Brunt eyes him contemplatively. “You don’t have to be polite, Quark. The latinum’s already been transferred into your account.” He chuckles. “You’ll finally be able to afford some better furniture. Some nicer clothes, too.”

There’s a sadness in Brunt’s voice that doesn’t quite match the intended insult. Quark frowns slightly.

“I’m sure the next person who shares your bed will appreciate it,” Brunt adds. 

“Hey.” Quark reaches up to stroke his face for a bit, and Brunt leans into his palm, looking surprised. “Don’t.”

“It wouldn’t be viable in the long-term,” Brunt continues, more softly this time, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself as much as Quark. “I’m traveling for most of the year, and you’re not about to relinquish your establishment anytime soon.”

Quark nods. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

“Surrounded by offworlder degenerates.” Brunt tries to look disgusted, but he mostly looks jealous and miserable. “Picking up all sorts of disgusting, nontraditional habits.”

“Yep.” Quark tilts his face up for a kiss, and Brunt immediately obliges, kissing him hard, holding Quark’s face to his for a long while, before letting go.

“You’re so needy,” Brunt mutters.

“Very,” Quark agrees. “You should check up on me every once in a while. Make sure I’m not slipping further into debauchery.”

They gaze at each other for a moment, then Brunt shrugs off Quark’s hand.

“A hand-mixed snail juice does sound nice,” Brunt says chipperly. The sudden brightness in his voice doesn’t fool Quark one bit.

Quark smiles. “I’ll make yours extra smooth.”

He wonders how long it will take for the bonding hormones to dissipate. 

For Brunt’s sake, Quark hopes it’ll happen soon. 

(If Quark were more awake, he might be horrified at his own line of thinking. Caring about the feelings of someone who nearly left him for dead? And wanted him dead? And traveled light years just to make sure he’d die?

Well, that was all before their sex contract changed things. Who knew Brunt just wanted to fuck his brains out? 

Quark wonders what other interpersonal conflicts he might be able to solve with a good old-fashioned sex contract. Or just sex in general.

It’s probably a good thing he’s not more awake.)

They roll out of opposite sides of the bed, and get ready to go about the rest of their day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)


End file.
